


haematophobia

by armethaumaturgy



Series: Reqs [9]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Animal Death, Blood, Comfort Food, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Farmer/Horror, Horror (Horrortale) - Freeform, M/M, References to Horrortale, Rottecrops, Rye (Farmtale), your honor theyre gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29945757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armethaumaturgy/pseuds/armethaumaturgy
Summary: When Rye had said, “Ol’ Bonnet’s gettin’ old,” Horror hadn’t thought much of it. It felt like an off-handed comment to him, especially considering how many pigs were on the farm, and the fact that Rye told stories of all the animals like he’d had them his entire life.
Relationships: Sans/Sans (Undertale)
Series: Reqs [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2151672
Comments: 7
Kudos: 75





	haematophobia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [avosettas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avosettas/gifts).



> written for @avosettas on twitter, lov u bee♥

When Rye had said, “Ol’ Bonnet’s gettin’ old,” Horror hadn’t thought much of it. It felt like an off-handed comment to him, especially considering how many pigs were on the farm, and the fact that Rye told stories of all the animals like he’d had them his entire life.

He thought a lot more of it when Rye told him to hold the plump pig still, and pulled out a curved knife.

It felt surreal to see the other skeleton with a blade that wasn’t a kitchen knife, and Horror was weirdly fixated on the way the sun reflected off the polished metal. He held it like he knew how to use it, and yet the precision of the way he slashed the pig’s throat startled him, jarring in conjunction with the soft, soothing words he whispered to the animal as he did so.

It jerked in his hold, once, and then stilled.

Blood spattered the ground where they kneeled, pouring out of the deep cut as if it had no end.

“Here, help me lay ‘er on ‘er side,” Rye said, but Horror couldn’t stop staring at the growing puddle of crimson.

In the back of his mind, he could hear Grillby’s pained scream, and the metallic scent invaded his nasal cavity like a parasite.

“Horror? Sweetpea?”

It was a hand on his shoulder that startled him out of his thoughts, the broken leylines along his cranium itchy and begging him to scratch at the jagged edges of his old wound. Rye’s hand was coated in blood.

Horror jerked backwards like he’d been scorched and Rye pulled it back, following the line of Horror’s sight to it and then hiding it behind his back.

“Not a fan o’ blood, are ya?” he asked, and though the words themselves were joking, his tone was soft. Horror looked away from him when his eye kept slipping to the side, down to the puddle beneath his beaten-up rain boots.

“Hey, s’okay…”

Rye scooted forward and placed his hand onto Horror’s shoulder again. This time, it was the clean one, and it didn’t make him recoil like a scaredy cat. Belatedly, he realized he was shaking like a leaf.

Rye’s eyelights were soft, glowing a gentle, homey green. “How’s about y’go inside ‘n wait fer me?”

Horror took the offer faster than was probably considered not-suspicious-as-fuck, but he couldn’t find it in himself to feel bad about it as he bolted for the door and let himself into the kitchen.

It smelled of charred meat, of burning hair and melting skin. He gripped the back of a chair to steady himself on shaky feet. The room smelled of burgers.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, forcing down the magic that threatened to surge up his throat, burning his non-existent trachea. The ticking of the cuckoo clock hanging on the off-white wall faded into the background, but he no longer felt like he’d be sick when Rye came in, suspiciously wet and clean.

“Hey,” he said, slowly stepping up to Horror as if he was a scared, cornered animal that would bolt at the first sign of danger, and not a seasoned killer with enough LV to level a universe, enough strength in his bones to break Rye in two. “M’sorry, sweetpea, I should’ve…”

He trailed off with a sigh, but Horror allowed him to wrap his arms around him, barely long enough to circle his larger ribcage. He moved them over to the couch in the adjacent living room, and Horror didn’t even get to marvel at the fact that he’d done so backwards. His legs ached as he sat down, and tentatively, he wrapped his arms around Rye in turn.

He rested his chin in the crook of Rye’s neck, breathing in his scent. He always smelled of hay and dirt, never of blood and death. Horror inhaled the familiar smell, closing his eye as his hammering SOUL slowly calmed itself down.

Rye allowed him to do as he wished, one hand rubbing soft circles over his back, and Horror didn’t have the words to properly show his gratitude.

“How y’feelin’, sweetpea?” Rye asked him; he must’ve felt Horror’s trembling dying down, as slowly as it did.

“...sorry. Yeah,” he muttered into his neck, voice raw with emotions. It took too long to remind himself where he was, that he wasn’t surrounded by famine and decay.

“Nah,” Rye shushed him, still rubbing those little circles onto his back. It was entirely too soft, and yet Horror couldn’t help but selfishly enjoy it, bask in the little piece of happiness he was allowed, despite not deserving it. “I shoulda warned ya. Won’t letcha do that ‘gain, ‘kay?”

It was stupid, Horror knew. They were on a  _ farm. _ Of course the animals would be raised to be eaten. But the vague acknowledgment in his mind had apparently not been enough. He felt like a fool, considering how many lives he’d ended himself. How many of his signature headdogs he’d made.

But Rye was not like that. This whole farm wasn’t like that.

“It’s… fine.”

Rye shook his head. “Even so, sweetpea. Ain’t no point makin’ ya do somethin’ y’don’t like. How’s about I make us a stew?”

It was altogether too easy to get Horror on board with anything, if it involved food. He was sure Rye knew this, and maybe he was also using it to his advantage. Horror couldn’t even find it in himself to be mad.

“...want help?”

Rye pulled away and pressed his teeth to his forehead in a soft kiss. “Nah, I got it. Y’can stay right ‘ere if ya want, pum’kin.”

“‘kay,” Horror muttered, though he didn’t let the other skeleton get up for a moment longer, squeezing him as close as their ribcages allowed them.

The premise of his hearty stew soothed something in his SOUL, but Horror let himself bask in it for a moment longer before he let him go. 

Rye smelled of hay and of fresh dirt, not blood and death. He smelled of home —  _ real  _ home.

**Author's Note:**

> my twitter is @esqers ♥


End file.
